


Beneath The Stars

by MacksDramaticShenanigans



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Conflicted Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt, Except then there's more Hurt after that, Fallen Angels, First Kiss, Haircuts, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stargazing, Stars, conflicted feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans
Summary: “You’re an Angel,” Crowley starts, conspiratorially. “You’re all about helping people. That’s what you do, isn’t that right?”Aziraphale nods, but narrows his eyes curiously at Crowley. “Yes…” he confirms slowly.“Lend me a hand then, will you? I need a favor.”“Anything,” Aziraphale responds automatically. “What is it?”“Cut my hair.”“Wh-what?” Aziraphale stammers, suddenly regretting his word choice of anything.“Cut my hair,” Crowley says again.Crowley produces a pair of scissors— miracled them, perhaps— and holds them out for Aziraphale, who takes them hesitantly.“Oh, my dear boy, but I’ve never cut hair before. I’m afraid I’m no barber,” Aziraphale says, holding the dull scissors with two fingers by the edge of the handle, as though they’re dirty and he’d rather not get his hands unclean. His nose scrunches up a little, an unsure look etching into his features. “I have no professional training. At all. What if I mess it up? What if you don’t like it?” He gasps. “What if I cut your ear?”





	Beneath The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hiii! It’s been so long since I’ve posted anything, ahhh!! 48 days, to be exact, I’ve been counting aklfsdfg. I don’t know what it is but I’ve had the Actual Literal Worst Case of writers block to ever exist the past few months, and this is honestly the first thing I’ve actually genuinely written since May. Which is crazy. I know I always usually struggle to write in the summer anyways, but it’s never been this bad before. 
> 
> But, hopefully with me finishing this that means it’s over! Fingers crossed! I have so many things I want to write!
> 
> Anywaysssss, you’ll probably notice that this is a fic for a completely new fandom and pairing!!! Exciting! As usual, we have tumblr to thank for this haha. I just had to see what all those gifs and posts about the sunny angel and pouty demon who’ve been simultaneously pining for and married for 6000 years was about! And of course, that means I fell head first down the Good Omens rabbit hole haha. There’s just something about it though that’s SO GOOD ugh. 
> 
> That, of course, led me to writing my very first Good Omens fic! And I’m hoping it won’t be my last either, I already have several other ideas jotted down in my notes haha.
> 
> I had a lot a lot of fun writing this fic, it honestly felt so good to just be writing after so long not, but the concept for this fic is one I love very much a lot.
> 
> It’s very directly inspired by the song Samson by Regina Spektor, specifically the verse about cutting hair haha. I’ve listened to this song I don’t even know how many times over the last week, and I just had to write something to go with it. 
> 
> Just a heads up: I’m not Christian or Catholic or anything; I’m Jewish, and even then, I’m not religious at all, so all my knowledge of any biblical or religious events in this are completely thanks to google and the few helpful souls on a few discord servers. I tried to mention it as little as possible for this exact reason lol, but I apologize if anything I did mention isn’t right. Oops.
> 
> The title comes from, of course, [Samson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8) by Regina Spektor. Beautiful song, 10/10 recommend y’all listen to it, especially while you read this!
> 
> Thank you to the loml Caroline for being oh so supportive of me while I worked through my writers block and tackled this fic! And also thank you for reading it over for me. Your constant support is unparalleled and I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without you <3 (but fuck u for calling this mullet fic fxghjdf it’s nOT)
> 
> Also, another huge thank you to Ben for betaing this fic for me! All of your comments and suggestions were super helpful and I appreciate it so much!!
> 
> Now, without further ado, please enjoy my very first Good Omens fic!! :)

Aziraphale has always enjoyed the absolute beauty that is the night sky, lit up by thousands and thousands of stars. Bright, burning balls of light, millions of light years away. Something seemingly so small, yet so large, so important. So  _ wonderful _ .

They've always dazzled him.

Tonight the skies are clear, leaving the stars on full display. Aziraphale plans to take full advantage of that. 

When he steps outside, however, he sees a figure sitting on a marble bench, chin tilted up towards the sky. The figure's clothing is familiar, something he's seen before, but it's the long cascade of shining red hair that catches his eye. He'd recognize it anywhere.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaims brightly. His posture straightens and he folds his hands together in front of himself, pleased as punch to see the demon. 

Crowley turns. "Aziraphale," he greets, but it's lacking his usual spark, and he doesn't look as happy to see Aziraphale as Aziraphale is to see him. His shoulders are slumped a little, yellow eyes not nearly as bright as he remembers. They look almost sad. It matches the melancholy hanging in the air around Crowley.

A frown curves onto Aziraphale's face and he steps through the archway, stopping a few paces from the bench. Coming close, but still giving Crowley his space. "Is… is everything alright, my dear?"

Crowley tilts his head and makes a few jumbled, inarticulate noises. "Been better, I suppose," he adds in a clearer tone.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Aziraphale says, a pinched smile pulling at his mouth. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks after a moment.

“Ngk,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale isn’t as versed in Crowley’s communication as he could be— they’ve only been acquainted for just over two millennia so far— but he does know that answer isn’t a positive one.

But before he can change the subjects, Crowley barrels on. “The day’s events have hit a bit too close to home, I’d say,” he continues.

“Oh? How so?” Aziraphale wonders. “If I may ask,” he adds on tactfully. It wouldn’t be very angelic of him to forget his manners like that.

Crowley waves a hand. “Building a tower to reach the heavens,” he drawls, and oh, Aziraphale didn’t realize that he’d been in Shinar too. Though, looking back on it, that would explain the fleeting glimpse of a familiar figure he’d seen across the way as all chaos broke loose among the Babylonians.

“It’s all pretty shortsighted, if you ask me,” Crowley says. “No one will ever reach the heavens, not under God’s  _ divine eye _ ,” he practically spits. “Been there, done that. It doesn’t work— not even for something as insignificant as visiting your own creation in the sky.” He gestures up at the stars. “I could have told them their silly little tower wouldn’t work.”

Several new questions swirl through Aziraphale’s head. Like,  _ been there, done that _ ? What’s that supposed to mean? Like, you’ve tried to reach the heavens, are you mad? Like, the stars are  _ your _ creation?

The last one he has to verbalize.

“The stars… they’re yours? You put them there, I mean?” He’s unable to mask the wonder in his voice.

A wistful smile settles over Crowley’s face and he turns his chin towards the sky once more, taking it all in. “The stars, the cosmos, the nebulas, even the moon. Hung them all myself.” There’s an underlying trace of pride in his words, but a deep sadness there, too.

“They’re quite divine,” Aziraphale tells Crowley sincerely. He drags his eyes from Crowley’s moonlight-soaked profile to stare up at the stars in awe, missing the way Crowley winces at his word choice.  _ Too close to home _ . “I’ve always loved looking at them. S’actually what I came out here to do,” he admits quietly with a happy little wiggle of his shoulders.

Again, too preoccupied with the stars, he misses the jerk of Crowley’s head as it sharply turns towards Aziraphale. Crowley’s eyebrows are lifted near his hairline, mouth curved into a small ‘o’. He’s had plenty of people wax poetic to him about his work with the cosmos, but hearing it from Aziraphale strikes a chord deep inside of him. It means so much more coming from him. 

“You came out here to stargaze, but I don’t suppose you’d be willing to add on to your evening activities, would you?” Crowley asks, shoving those feelings down deep.

“Depends on the activity,” Aziraphale responds, meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“You’re an Angel,” Crowley starts, conspiratorially. “You’re all about helping people. That’s what you do, isn’t that right?”

Aziraphale nods, but narrows his eyes curiously at Crowley. “Yes…” he confirms slowly.

“Lend me a hand then, will you? I need a favor.” 

“Anything,” Aziraphale responds automatically. “What is it?”

“Cut my hair.”

“Wh-what?” Aziraphale stammers, suddenly regretting his choice of the word  _ anything _ .

“Cut my hair,” Crowley says again.

Crowley produces a pair of scissors— miracled them, perhaps— and holds them out for Aziraphale, who takes them hesitantly. 

“Oh, my dear boy, but I’ve never cut hair before. I’m afraid I’m no barber,” Aziraphale says, holding the dull scissors with two fingers by the edge of the handle, as though they were dirty and he’d rather not get his hands unclean. His nose scrunches up a little, an unsure look etching into his features. “I have no professional training. At all. What if I mess it up? What if you don’t like it?” He gasps. “What if I cut your ear?” 

“That’s not really important,” Crowley replies, waving his hand vaguely through the air. He doesn’t specify whether the lack of professional training or the cutting his ear is what isn’t important.

Aziraphale adjusts his grip on the scissors, but hesitates. 

“Come on then,” Crowley urges, unceremoniously dumping himself onto the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. He tips his head back a little so his deep red curls fall from their perch over his shoulders and cascade down his back.

Aziraphale watches them, entranced.

He reaches a hand out, but stops himself before he can touch. “Why would you want to get rid of these beautiful curls?” He can’t help but ask. They’re lovely, long and lustrous, and he can’t understand why Crowley would want to part ways with them, and at the mercy of someone who hasn’t ever handled scissors in this manner before, too. 

Aziraphale can’t see the way Crowley’s face falls a little. “It’s too much,” he answers simply, after a beat, not elaborating any further. His tone suggests that he won’t, if prodded. 

That doesn’t stop Aziraphale, though.

“Too much?” He repeats. “Well, how so?” He can’t help the inquisition. He can, on occasion, be a curious creature— though not curious enough to stir the pot, that is. And it’s perplexing; Aziraphale thinks it might have something to do with hitting  _ too close to home _ again, whatever that means. He would very much like to find out. 

Crowley laughs softly, a little sad, a little bitter. He admires Aziraphale’s persistence, but it’s achingly familiar. Just like the hair he’s desperate to be rid of.

“Just cut it, angel,” Crowley insists, pointedly ignoring the sudden urge he feels to spill his heart out to the ethereal being behind him. 

Uncertainty still eats away at Aziraphale, but there's something in him that doesn't like seeing Crowley so sad, even if he doesn't quite understand  _ why _ .

Maybe it's because he's an angel, a being of love, and seeing anyone so miserable hurts his very cause, or maybe it's something deeper. Something he knows he can feel, but can't quite put his finger on what that feeling is. Regardless, the desire to see the demon happy is one too strong to resist.

Aziraphale lifts the scissors to the base of Crowley's head, letting the silver edge brush up against the hair. He doesn't open them yet. "How much would you like me to cut?" He asks.

Crowley mulls it over for a moment, then shrugs. "Enough," he answers. "I just don't want it long anymore."

"And for the love of go- sat-  _ someone _ , do not give me a mullet," Crowley adds as an afterthought.

Aziraphale brings his free hand up to Crowley's hair, running his fingers over the curls resting against Crowley's back. They're soft, unfairly so. They almost feel like fine silk beneath his fingertips.

He cards his fingers up, carefully, gently, to avoid catching tangles, then stops just beneath the nape of Crowley's neck. "Is this short enough?"

Crowley lifts his own hand up to the back of his head, blindly feeling for Aziraphale's.

When he finally connects with his target, his long, spindly fingers curl around Aziraphale's hand. His skin is warm against Aziraphale's, warm and almost buzzing, maybe even  _ burning _ . It's not unpleasant, though.

Aziraphale only just manages to hold in a tiny gasp. He thinks, perhaps, it's some sort of side effect of something holy meeting something demonic; a chemical reaction of sorts. It's not something he would know for sure, though— he's never been touched by a demon before.

Crowley guides his hand up a few inches before letting go, leaving a faint tingling sensation in his wake. "There," he says. "That should do."

Aziraphale pastes a shaky smile onto his face, despite his only audience being the back of Crowley's head. "Very well," he replies.

The scissors had dropped back down to his side, but now he brings them back up, pulling the shears apart. The edges are dull, but they glint in the yellow light of the moon and stars above.

"Alright," Aziraphale narrates, gathering a section of Crowley's curls. "Here I go. I'm going to cut it now."

The scissors sit still in Aziraphale's grip.

"Get on with it, angel. More cutting, less talking," Crowley urges, not unkindly.

"Right," Aziraphale replies.

He takes a deep breath, presses his lips together, and snaps the scissors shut.

Soft red strands float to the floor and settle in a pile at his feet.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, as though he's surprised he actually did it. "Oh, goodness."

"Something wrong?" Crowley asks. There's no trace of panic in his tone.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "No, no, nothing wrong," he answers. A small chuckle bubbles up. "For a second I didn't think I'd be able to do it. Destroy something so beautiful, I mean."

He realizes after he says it that he's essentially just complimented a demon— and has been the whole time, really. His cheeks go a little pink at that. It is the truth, though.

"Don't think of it as destroying then," Crowley suggests. "Think of it as… rebuilding. Repurposing. Giving new life, or something like that. That's the kind of phrasing your lot likes, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," Aziraphale agrees. 

And isn't it funny how the very same events can be both considered destruction and rebirth at the same time depending on who you ask? It's insights like these that make Aziraphale wonder just how different angels and demons really are sometimes.

He always feels a little guilty after that.

Shaking his head clear of all those kinds of thoughts, Aziraphale focuses on the task at hand.

A companionable silence settles between the pair, only interrupted by the soft snipping of the scissors. There isn't anything uncomfortable about the quiet; quite the opposite, rather.

Aziraphale cuts with as careful a precision as he can, mindful that he doesn't take off too much or too little or accidentally knick Crowley's ear. 

Eventually, he breaks the silence. 

"Is there a particular reason for this?" Aziraphale wonders. "Wanting it short, I mean." He knows he's prodding, but he can sense a deeper meaning behind it. The resignation, the surety of Crowley's request… it isn't just Crowley wanting to change his style up a bit; there  _ is _ a reason behind it. There has to be.

Whether Crowley wants to share it or not isn't up to Aziraphale, though. 

Crowley's only response to the question is a quiet string of unintelligible noises. 

That's that on that, then.

Aziraphale doesn't ask again as he focuses on cutting the rest of Crowley's hair. Crowley doesn't say anything else either.

It's almost sad to see the last of Crowley's curls fall, but it's almost poetic, too. A parallel of sorts.

Unlike the first one, this Fall is completely in Crowley's control. It's his choice. This is his very own personal acceptance of what's happened to him.

It may be a few millennia late, but it's finally here.

"Finished," Aziraphale announces, folding the scissors and letting them hang back at his side.

The haircut is far from perfect; it's not very even around the bottom, and perhaps a bit shorter than Crowley would have ideally liked, but the long flowing curls— the biggest reminder of his past— are gone, and that's what is most important.

"How've I done?" Aziraphale asks. "Could I have a successful career as a barber?"

Crowley's fingers slide up to touch his hair. He runs them over the short sides, the soft top, runs at the short hairs that brush the nape of his neck. Then he miracles a mirror and peers at himself in it.

"You've done alright," Crowley tells Aziraphale, turning to face him. "I wouldn't quit your day job if I were you, though," he adds, a sly little grin curling his lips. It's the first smile Aziraphale's seen from him all evening. He counts that as a win in and of itself. "Thank you, angel."

And that… well, that surprises Aziraphale. He's always thought demons never went around thanking people— it didn't seem like a very demonic thing to do, and manners were a divine creation after all.

It sounds sincere coming from Crowley, though. Looks it, too, if the appreciative pull between his eyebrows means anything.

"Oh, you're very welcome, my dear," Aziraphale says, smiling at Crowley. He makes an aborted attempt to speak again, like he suddenly thought better of his words at the last second. But then he says it anyways. "I don't suppose you'll tell me why, now that I've gone and done it." Then he gently adds, "I am a rather good listener, if that's something you need."

Crowley looks touched and a little surprised, too, almost like it's the first time someone's ever offered to listen to him. He tries to play nonchalant, though, as he picks up a lock of hair from the floor. He holds it up, examining it as he drags his fingers down the length of it. 

He's stalling, clearly, but Aziraphale can see that he's also mentally steeling himself to open up. 

Except long enough passes that Aziraphale starts to think that maybe he isn't going to open up. Which is okay, too. As much as Aziraphale would like to be there for Crowley, he isn't going to push him.

"It's, uh," Crowley starts suddenly, staring down at his hands where they fiddle with the cut hair. There's a furrow between his brows, a slight pout to his lips. "The long hair— it reminded me too much of before," he continues. "Before I… Fell."

"Oh,  _ oh _ ," Aziraphale says softly. His face falls, sorrow painting his features as he looks upon Crowley where he sits.

A wave of discontent passes over him as he realizes how this must look. Aziraphale, the angelic, holy, ethereal being standing over the Fallen Angel where he sits on the cold, hard ground.

He doesn't think twice before he lowers himself to the ground beside Crowley. 

“It was ages ago,” Crowley goes on. “I asked too many questions. God didn’t like that. So She cast me out.” He pushes his lower lip out in what he’s trying to pass as a nonchalant ‘oh well’ expression, but Aziraphale can see right through it.

He can tell it still hurts Crowley to talk about, that it’s still fresh, despite happening so long ago.

Falling has always been one of Aziraphale’s biggest fears— if not  _ the _ biggest fear. He can’t even begin to imagine the toll it must have taken on Crowley. He seems to be holding it together pretty well, all things considered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley’s eyes flicker up form the ground to meet Aziraphale’s at the call of his name. Aziraphale reaches out to cover his hand over the top of Crowley’s— a reassuring touch. “Even though you Fell, things are still going to be alright.” 

“Do you… do you mean that, angel?” Crowley asks, voice barely above a whisper. He sounds so vulnerable, so  _ hopeful _ .

Aziraphale’s expression softens and he nods. “I do,” he assures. 

He doesn’t quite understand why he’s reassuring a demon, and why he’s so adamant that Crowley believes him, but there’s just something different about Crowley. Aziraphale can’t say he’s consorted with many other demons before, but he’s heard the stories, and Crowley is nothing like the demons described in them. He may be a patron of Hell, but there’s something  _ good _ in him, Aziraphale can sense it.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, trying to lighten the mood of the moment with a subject change. “As much as I liked your curls, you do look, uh, quite dashing.” He gestures towards Crowley’s new haircut. “Short hair suits you.”

The corner of Crowley’s lips twitches up minutely, and the pained crease of his forehead relaxes. "Thanks, angel." 

And it's oh so tender, the way the words fall from Crowley's lips, and Aziraphale's heart aches.

He smiles warmly back at Crowley, and before he can register what’s happening, a palm comes up to cup his cheek and a pair of thin, slightly chapped lips cover his own.

It’s so sudden that Aziraphale’s first instinct is to return the kiss, to take what’s so generously being given to him and reciprocate. But then his brain catches up with his body, and it hits him.

With a gasp, Aziraphale wrenches himself back, hands moving to push at Crowley’s shoulders, separating them, putting a distance between them.

Shock colors his expression, and his cheeks turn red— with surprise, embarrassment, anger— as his wild eyes blink at Crowley. “ _ What the  _ hell _ are you doing _ ?” He practically hisses— a tone that he doesn’t think he’s ever heard himself use before. “Crowley, you’re… you’re a demon! You can’t just go around kissing  _ angels _ ! I don’t care if you were one once. We’re… we’re  _ hereditary enemies _ . It’s… it’s not allowed!” 

Crowley’s hurt, but he hides it impeccably, sitting up straight and putting on a stiff face in the wake of Aziraphale’s outburst.

Rejected by Heaven, again. It really shouldn’t be all that surprising to him anymore. It’s become a bit of a pattern now.

He thought Aziraphale was different, though. He’d been so kind to him just now… though, that is his job, isn’t it? Being kind and comforting and supportive. It’s what angels do.

“Right,” Crowley says rigidly. “My bad.”

He spares a brief glance at Aziraphale, who’s heated shock has melted into surprise at himself, for his own reaction. 

Crowley lifts himself off of the ground, more than ready to make his own swift exit and lick his wounds in his own privacy.

Aziraphale scrambles to his feet as well. 

He looks like he’s about to… about to  _ apologize _ , perhaps, despite this being Crowley’s own fault for initiating. And of course the angel would feel as though it’s his responsibility, his fault. Bloody angels. 

Crowley’s not sure if he can handle hearing that, and he doesn’t particularly want to find out. He brushes past Aziraphale, who calls his name, but he ignores it and disappears around the corner.

Aziraphale is left standing there, in the middle of the starry night, holding his hand over his heart. His mind is still reeling, a flurry of contradicting thoughts and feelings bouncing around his skull. But the one thing that stands out, stark against the rest, is that what he regrets most about this whole ordeal isn’t the kiss itself, but the way he reacted to it. He finds himself wishing he could take it all back.

And isn’t  _ that _ something.

He casts his eyes up at the sky above, as though he’ll find some sort of answer there, written in the stars. All he sees is  _ Crowley _ .

Aziraphale reaches up to tenderly touch his lips, where Crowley’s had been mere moments ago.

“ _ Oh _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think with a kudos and a comment! They mean the world to me!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/brooklynbabybucky) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/BrklynBabyBucky)! :)


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